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Updated: May 4, 2025
And I know M. de La Tour d'Azyr," he answered her. "He is a man without charity, without humanity almost; a man who takes what he wants wherever he finds it and whether it is given willingly or not; a man who reckons nothing of the misery he scatters on his self-indulgent way; a man whose only law is force. Ponder it, Climene, and ask yourself if I do you less than honour in warning you."
"Could he... could he walk?" he asked, on a note of terrible anxiety. "Walk? He ran like a hare when he left the inn. I thought, myself, that his agility was suspicious, seeing how lame he had been since he fell downstairs yesterday. Is anything wrong?" M. Binet had collapsed into a chair. He took his head in his hands, and groaned. "The scoundrel was shamming all the time!" exclaimed Climene.
A chair was thrust forward. He crushed Scaramouche down into it. "Let us look at this foot of yours." Heedless of Scaramouche's howls of pain, he swept away shoe and stocking. "What ails it?" he asked, staring. "Nothing that I can see." He seized it, heel in one hand, instep in the other, and gyrated it. Scaramouche screamed in agony, until Climene caught Binet's arm and made him stop.
He spoke of it gently to her as they walked home together, counselling more prudence in the future. "We are not married yet," she told him, tartly. "Wait until then before you criticize my conduct." "I trust that there will be no occasion then," said he. "You trust? Ah, yes. You are very trusting." "Climene, I have offended you. I am sorry." "It is nothing," said she. "You are what you are."
This will certainly mean the Comedie Francaise for Climene, and that before long, and you shall shine in the glory she will reflect. As the father of Madame Scaramouche you may yet be famous." Binet, his face slowly empurpling, glared at him in speechless stupefaction.
He was in blue satin, with ruffles, small sword, powdered hair, patches and spy-glass, and red-heeled shoes: the complete courtier, looking very handsome. The women of Guichen ogled him coquettishly. He took the ogling as a proper tribute to his personal endowments, and returned it with interest. Like Climene, he looked out of place amid the bandits who composed the remainder of the company.
Almost you make me lose my temper, which is a thing that I detest above all others!" Slowly his glance returned to Climene, who sat with elbows on the table, her chin cupped in her palms, regarding him with something between scorn and defiance. "Mademoiselle," he said, slowly, "I desire you purely in your own interests to consider whither you are going."
"Ah, mon Dieu, Leandre, let us separate at once. If it should be my father..." And upon this a man's voice broke in, calm and reassuring: "No, no, Climene; you are mistaken. There is no one coming. We are quite safe. Why do you start at shadows?" "Ah, Leandre, if he should find us here together! I tremble at the very thought." More was not needed to reassure Andre-Louis.
Columbine tactlessly joined them as they were setting out, though in this respect matters were improved a little when Harlequin came running after them, and attached himself to Columbine. Andre-Louis, stepping out ahead with Climene, spoke of the thing that was uppermost in his mind at the moment. "Your father is behaving very oddly towards me," said he.
Ten minutes later the three knocks sounded, and the curtains were drawn aside to reveal a battered set that was partly garden, partly forest, in which Climene feverishly looked for the coming of Leandre. In the wings stood the beautiful, melancholy lover, awaiting his cue, and immediately behind him the unfledged Scaramouche, who was anon to follow him.
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